Like Violence
by Neko Kuroban
Summary: Sometimes we fear violence less than our own feelings. Zuko, Azula, Ozai -- and all the permutations thereof.


**Author's Notes: **Written for Sister Grimm Erin. _Like Violence _contains implications of incest, both Ozai/Azula and Zuko/Azula. Please use your discretion.

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**Like Violence**

**by Neko Kuroban  
**

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It is mid-summer.

The three days of Obon are finally over. A public holiday of the Fire Nation, it had once been held sacred, a way to mourn and honor the dead. Now, however, fireworks and merriment concealed the holiday's true purpose. Bonfires burned brightly, surrounded by merrymakers, until the moon was at its apogee, and the _odori_ dancing lasted until the sun began to creep up into the heavens.

In contrast, the luridly colored paper lanterns bobbing on the water's surface had struck you as almost impossibly sad.

You and your sister had been permitted to light candles and send them floating down the river before any others had been launched. When Ojisan asked later, you had claimed that yours had been for Lu Ten. She had sworn up and down that hers was for your grandfather. Ojisan had given both of you a look that could have held a thousand meanings, and you suspected that your kindly uncle knew the truth: the pair of bobbing lanterns had been for your mother.

With the festivities over, a court recess would be called. Over the next month, the upper class would escape the heat of the capital city. Those who could afford it would head to the mountains or the shore, seeking pleasure and replacing political intrigue with stretches of white sand or onsen baths.

For years, your family would travel as well, either to balmy, idyllic Ember Island or to the retreat in the northern mountains, but you had not done either since the summer before Kaasan left. Nothing had ever been said about it, and you were not about to broach the subject to Tousan. Your sister could get away with asking anything, punctuating it with either a cloyingly sweet _Papa_ or a more formal _Otousan_, but you find that your mouth goes dry whenever you want to approach your father with anything that is actually important to you.

It is a stifling night, and humidity wraps itself thick around the city. Tomorrow, the sun will rise blood-orange, and a thunderstorm will rip apart the afternoon.

Too hot to sleep, you go into the solarium that connects your bedroom to your sister's. It used to be a playroom: a few childish things remain, but most have been banished. Rather than being lavishly appointed like your bedchambers, the solar is simply furnished in a traditional style. The floor is bare wood covered with woven _tatami_ mats. Sleek, slender columns and elegant carvings above the lintel are the only adornment. Shoji panels, crafted of thin sheets of mulberry wood and painted with sakura branches, slide open to reveal a view of the rolling grounds and the pond glimmering in the moonlight.

Throwing them open now permits a breeze to enter the room, and you unroll a futon that had been stored away in a cupboard. You do not bother to arrange it as a servant would set it up. You simply smooth out the padded mattress and thin quilt over the _tatami_.

In the distance, you can still hear the revelry in the city.

Closer still, the servants' conversation is not quite muffled. It is a national holiday, and most of the staff has been dismissed for the evening. The more essential members of the household had remained, but they were not being held to the usual strict standards demanded of them. You can hear one of the guards chuckle in the distance, and you are familiar enough with the effects of the drink to recognize the intoxicated edge in the sound.

You know the real reason why most of the staff has been dismissed from this wing — and it has nothing to do with Obon. Try as you might not to let yourself think of it, sleep remains elusive.

The sound of fireworks and revelry is beginning to grow faint and subdued when you hear the door to the solar slide open. You do not need to look to know that it is your sister standing there. As she steps inside, you hear the familiar _clack clack _sound of _geta_ sandals against the wooden floor until she removes them to step on the delicate woven mats.

Both of you customarily wear either _zori_ sandals, soft slippers, or boots, depending on time of year. Neither of you are yet adults, and it is considered more acceptable for you both to wear flat shoes. _Geta_ sandals are held up with two thin wooden platforms and require a great deal of practice to walk in correctly. The tapered fronts can make the untrained wearer lean slightly forward, which demands time and grace to overcome. Both men and women of the court wear them for everything from serving tea to running (not that a noble would ever be caught doing something so undignified, of course) but you will always associate the sound with the image of a proper lady with soft hands and lily-white feet.

You shift to look up at her, and you can't help it: something stabs at you inside.

She had experienced her menarche recently. If you were ashamed to discover this, she was mortified at it being public knowledge. The occasion had been marked in the traditional fashion with rice and red beans served at supper. The men of Tousan's war cabinet had joined them that night. Most of the officers had the grace to say absolutely nothing, but the general had smirked and raked his gaze over your sister. A moment later, he murmured something to Tousan that made his eyes darken from amber to topaz. Your sister had pursed her lips and her eyes had flashed with irritation, but nothing could hide the pink tinge that crept across her face.

During the festival, she had been dressed as a princess ought to be. Tonight was the first time she had been permitted to don the dress of an unmarried young woman instead of a child's simple garment. An adolescent girl was expected to wear an elaborate kimono that reflected the wealth of her family. To celebrate the final night of 'Bon, your sister had been draped in flame-red silk with sleeves to her ankles. A seamstress had stitched actual white orchards to the fabric, which you thought was impractical.

Presently, however, she wears not nightclothes but the attire of a married woman. It is a rich but subdued shade of autumn red-gold, embroidered with cranes and leaves. Extremely formal with a long train and many layers, it used to belong to your mother. Most women, even women of the court, reserved garments such as this solely for weddings, funerals, and holidays, but Kaasan had worn one nearly every day, out of preference as well as her position as princess consort.

Unlike your mother, your sister wore it sloppily. It is too large for her and the garments are rumpled — as if they had been removed without care and put back on with great haste. The obi is tied in the simplest of knots. Kaasan always wore it so that it resembled the petals of a flower, but your sister always tied hers in the most basic style, a simple knot favored by boys and men. Her straight ebony hair falls in a thick sheet down her back, mussed and tangled.

The intoxicated guard outside hails another servant in the distance, his speech slurred together. There is an answering laugh and reply from his companion, but this time it is accompanied by their superior's strict reprimand.

She slides the shoji panel overlooking the garden closed, but you do not dare protest. "Move over," she instructs in a low hiss, coming to stand at the foot of the futon. She sheds layer after layer — the gown requires seven in all — until she wears only the lightest one: a cotton yukata worn as a foundation garment. Unlike the rest, this is white and actually hers. It is tied only with a narrow strip of cotton. The pins that would have kept it fastened have been removed.

You obey, moving to the side, and she lays down next to you. She claims the pillow for herself without asking, but you would have given it to her anyway. Her hair tumbles over it, and you realize with a jolt that she is wearing the same rose water scent your mother had worn. Something else clings to her long black tresses — the smell of smoke (which you recognize), a sharp, distinctive masculine scent (you know but you do not want to know and you do not allow yourself to place it) and something more, too (something you will not be familiar with for several years to come).

You roll over so that you are laying on your side, facing away from her. You want to know so badly -- but you know not how to phrase the question so you did not ask. You clench your eyes shut, feeling your jaw tighten. You jerk the summer-weight quilt up to your hunched, tense shoulders.

It is just barely audible, but you recognize the sound behind you for what it is.

"Azula, are you _crying_?" The query bursts out before you can prevent it, and you are immediately ashamed.

"No." Is it your imagination or is there a slight quiver to her usually unwavering voice? "I _don't _cry. You know that."

"You're very strong."

You shift to face her. She immediately turns away, putting her back to you, but, for an instant, your gazes meet. The two of you, it is often remarked, have the same eyes — same cat-like quality, same almond shape, same long dark lashes, same distinctive gold color.

Your father's eyes.

"_Shoganai, oniichan_," she mutters, turning the honorific into an insult. _There is nothing that can be done, _she might have said, but you know that what she really means is _I have nothing else_.

"_Taihen desu ne, imoutochan._" You are trying to sound light, trying to sound playful, but then you whisper a single phrase — and you have never meant it more: "_Sasuga._"

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**Translations: **

_Ojisan — _Uncle  
_Kaasan_ — Informal way to refer to the speaker's mother. Okaasan is the more formal version.  
_Tousan_ — Informal word for the speaker's father. Otousan is the more formal version.  
_Shoganai_ — Literally, "nothing can be done" or "this is the way things are" but there is an important contextual element. "Shogonai" focuses on the speaker's inability to change circumstance as well as the world's.  
_Oniichan_ — A fond way of referring to an older brother. Azula uses it mockingly.  
_Taihen desu ne_ — An informal way of expressing sympathy.  
_Imoutochan_ — A fond way of referring to one's younger sister. Zuko uses it half-sarcastically, half-genuinely.  
_Sasuga_ — "You impress me as always."


End file.
